


Out With the Old

by NotAnselAdams



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnselAdams/pseuds/NotAnselAdams
Summary: Published in Inscape Magazine in 1998, this was the first time I was ever published as an author.  A very short story written as a regular exercise in the class of Kay Haugaard from Pasadena City College.  I then submitted the story for publication based on her recommendation and that of several classmates and a few friends.  I was blown away to be selected; not because I doubted my writing ability, but because I assumed I would be lost in a sea of other dedicated writers of high quality.  Suffice it to say, it was an honor.





	Out With the Old

"Out With The Old"  
by Gabriel Garcia

 

In a place not far from L.A., a medium-sized city was in the throes of widespread modernization. The city leaders were convinced that cutting edge was far better than tried and true. Most of the people in that hamlet seemed to agree, or were at least so enthralled by the pretty new buildings and modern landscaping that they didn't complain about anything. A few people here and there did, but were never listened to.

Sitting on a small cliff atop a gentle incline that lead down to the beach, city leaders from a time long ago had set aside a small area sheltered from the hustle and bustle of the surrounding city by a huge wall of hedges peppered with pine trees, and a round, ivy-covered brick wall. It was a tiny glen, with a rustic oak bench up against the brick wall facing out towards the ocean. About forty feet in front of the bench near the edge of the cliff grew a large, weatherworn sycamore tree bent back slightly, away from the ocean. The tree's height and the angle at which it bent provided shade over the oak bench without obscuring the ocean view. A small path to the right of the sycamore tree led down the hill towards the beach below, but in the past few years very few people had used that path. Most had forgotten about the glen. The few people that happened across the glen saw the brick wall missing mortar here and there, the oak bench slightly cracked, the unweeded grass now growing wild from neglect, and declared it a dump worthy of modernization. So when the glen was slated to be covered over in an oceanside shopping mall, there was little opposition. 

The last day of the glen's existence finally arrived. It was a cloudy, windy winter day. The police were called to remove two young hippies who had chained themselves to the sycamore, but not well; upon doing so, the construction company commenced with the modernization. A small group of people had assembled down the path on the hill, past the yellow tape that had been laid out to keep spectators a safe distance away. Most of the crowd were people from the press, mostly photographers. A majority of the rest were present to enjoy clean-cut destruction. But there were four others present to see old memories to a shopping mall grave. 

Two of the construction workers began the task of removing the oak bench from the ground. If any of the photographers had been paying attention, they might have noticed in the crowd behind them a young man wearing a bittersweet smile as he reminisced. They would have noticed him because he was now a successful and well-known writer. The oak bench had been a retreat for him during the harder times of his writing career. Whenever he had an insurmountable writer's block, he would head to the oak bench, rain or shine, whatever the hour. After sitting for a few minutes beneath the sycamore canopy, listening to the ocean waves and watching the blue waters of the ocean, the young author would always feel revitalized. Without fail, his blocks would be overcome. That prolific author credited a special kind of magic present in that old oak bench and its serene, natural surroundings with saving his writing career. Without them, he would not be where he was today. As the bench was removed and the site readied for a bulldozer to knock the brick wall down, the author shook his head sadly and turned away, a new idea for a story forming in his mind as if the glen were granting him one last gift of literary insight.

The foreman motioned to the bulldozer, and its operator inched the 'dozer towards the back of the brick wall. As it connected with the wall and the bricks tumbled forward, a young wife rested her head upon her husband's chest as he held her close. The omnipresent press, intently focused on covering the destruction, did not see a tear roll down the young woman's face as she recalled a life-altering event that had taken place at that wall. 

Two years ago, Evelyn had had a difficult decision to make. Two men had offered her their hand in marriage -- one, a struggling young musician, wore his heart on his sleeve and dedicated it to her. The other was a silver spoon banker. Both the banker's family and her own wished Evelyn to wed the banker, and pressured her into doing so. Two years ago, she had accepted the banker's proposal, and they were engaged. The young musician was very hurt but told her that he wished her happiness, and would always love her. Evelyn loved him as well, and could not figure out why she had bent to the will of her family -- to this day, she still didn't know. Three weeks after her engagement to the banker, Evelyn caught him in bed with a young bank teller. Evelyn fled, crying, to the small glen with the oak bench and the bent sycamore; the young musician had shown it to her shortly before he got down on one knee and asked for her hand. Evelyn sat upon the oak bench and cried, oblivious to everything, including the young musician sitting on the brick wall playing his guitar. The musician called out her name, and Evelyn looked up to see him gaze down upon her with a sad smile. He played her favorite song, and when he was done asked her why she was so blue. Evelyn looked down at the ground and said quietly, "I've made the wrong choice. I chose -- I didn't choose the man I loved. I chose him instead of you, and I'm so sorry." She looked back up at the musician sitting atop the brick wall. "Is there still time to make the right choice?" The musician's face lit up in a huge smile as he nodded happily. They had been married for a year now.

As workers began to cut down the hedges and fell the pine trees, the foreman looked at the bent sycamore tree. Upon first glance, it didn't look as if it should be able to withstand the test of time. The trunk shot up out of the ground slightly forward, almost heading out towards the ocean, then bent back towards where the wall had been, creating almost a 120-degree angle as the huge, gnarled trunk branched outwards and up to the sky. Over the years the trunk had grown strong and the tree tall, providing ample shade. It had been heavily argued as to whether or not the tree should be removed. The foreman turned away and looked back at his crew as the wind picked up once again, stronger than before. Most people decided it was simply too cold to stay around, and didn't. As the crowd left, one person walked forward. He was a tall, thin man with glasses on. The man pulled his jacket around him as the cold, crisp winter air began to chill him. He walked up the hill and towards the sycamore tree. One photographer lingered, hoping to get a quote from the foreman as to the plans for the site. As the photographer walked up the hill towards the foreman, however, he noticed the young man kneeling down next to the sycamore's vast trunk, slipping off his right glove and fingering something on the trunk. The construction workers were too intent on their deforestation to notice him; only the photographer did. 

Only the photographer noticed the young man pull a small knife from a pocket in his jacket. Only the photographer watched as the man carved another notch into the trunk. But only the man himself knew that the notches in the trunk equaled the years he had lived with HIV. The young man believed that when his lover had brought him to this glen eight years ago, that it somehow aided him in the road back to well being. There was something magical about that sycamore tree. The man now lived with his lover farther up the coast, but returned each year to add another notch to the tree. Upon hearing about the plans for the new mall, he presumed the sycamore would be uprooted and wished to add a final notch to it -- one to grow on. 

The photographer approached the foreman and asked if the sycamore would be cut down as well. 

"Nah, it's staying. Not worth the effort of tearing it out." The foreman noticed the photographer's press badge and decided to drop a sound bite or two, motioning to the now barren glen. "Instead of this dump, there's gonna be a state-of-the-art mall here with lots of parking -- something that's actually useful to the community." The foreman smiled, proud of his work. "Isn't modernization great?"

 

*-- printed in Inscape, 1998. (c) Gabriel Garcia


End file.
